


To Tame a Wildcat

by pokeasleepingsmaug



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: F/M, I will not apologize for this, Rough then gentle Sihtric, What Have I Done, battlefield kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:56:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23494210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokeasleepingsmaug/pseuds/pokeasleepingsmaug
Summary: He is an unassuming man, usually. One who does not like to raise his voice, who soothes frightened horses with soft words, who braids your hair with deft, gentle fingers in the endless, breathless waiting before the inevitable clash of shield-walls. But there is something in him that he shows to no one, too afraid of their judgments, of their comparisons to his father. He works so hard to hide it.
Relationships: Sihtric (The Last Kingdom)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 60





	To Tame a Wildcat

There is no softness in him now, the son of a man known for his cruelty, a fierce man in his own right. His pupils are blown wide, liquid black, bloody sword in one hand, axe dripping crimson in the other. His shield is nowhere in sight: the one you helped him paint the howling wolf's head on. He must have dropped it sometime during the fighting, too battered to be anything more than a liability. 

He is an unassuming man, usually. One who does not like to raise his voice, who soothes frightened horses with soft words, who braids your hair with deft, gentle fingers in the endless, breathless waiting before the inevitable clash of shield-walls. But there is something in him that he shows to no one, too afraid of their judgments, of their comparisons to his father. He works so hard to hide it. 

But he can't contain it during a battle, drunk on blood and life and his own terrible ability to deal death. It's that man stalking toward you, lips pulled back in a terrible grimace: Sihtric the unstoppable, Sihtric the wildcat, for despite his ferocity, despite the painted symbol on his destroyed shield, he is no wolf. 

He is a whirlwind of blades and shield and swiftness, half-finesse and half-brutality. Even in his worst moments, there is a terrible grace in him, impossible to ignore, impossible not to be awed by. Impossible not to be terrified by. Impossible to not want to tame that, to bring that wildness to heel.

He breaks into a jog and launches himself onto you, tackling you to the ground in a bone-jarring collision. You fist your blood-spattered hand in his long dark hair and pull his head back. He bares his teeth, pupils blown huge and liquid black as he eyes you sideways, shakes his head to loosen your grip, and sinks his teeth hard into the soft skin where your neck meets shoulder. 

His hands pull your gory, stinking armor away with single-minded purpose, nails and teeth digging into your skin the instant it's exposed, tongue leaving long hot trails, tasting the blood and sweat, the fear and exhilaration always left behind in the wake of battle.

You barely have time to untie the laces at the front of his trousers and wrap your hand around his cock--so hard you can feel it throbbing in your palm--before he flips you over and slams into you with a guttural Danish curse, his hand between your shoulder blades pushing you into the battle-churned grass, a mere breath away from a patch of red mud. 

You grind your ass back against his hips and let him channel all his ferocity into your aching cunt. He lasts only half a dozen deep, fast thrusts before you're both screaming, before your entire body is clenching hard around him and under him, his fingers bruising your hips as they hold you in place. 

A beat of stillness follows before his fingers unclench and he withdraws from you. His hands are gentle, apologetic, as he helps you up and turns you around. 

Sihtric is sitting back on his haunches, body shaking, grimace a little more like a smile, eyes no longer quite endless pits of liquid darkness. You open your arms and he comes to you immediately, like a man drowning. He plants sloppy, openmouthed kisses from your mouth to your stomach, soothing all the marks and bruises on your skin, both from him and the battle. His fingers trace every inch of you they can reach, in awe, in something close to disbelief. 

He is sure, before every battle, that this will be the time he loses you. That you will fall to an enemy blade and he will not be swift enough to save you, that when he comes to you after, you will reject him. That you will have finally seen him for the monster he is beneath the layers of kindness and calm, that you will look at him with disgust instead of love. 

He takes his time now, hands softening as they explore you, as they probe the new bruises blooming on your skin. His breath is warm in your ear as he nibbles along the shell of it, raising goosebumps along your arms, and he smiles as he runs his finger along them, delighting that he can still draw these reactions from you. 

You open your legs to him, an invitation, and he slides in with a soft sigh and rests his forehead against yours. His eyes close as he begins to move within you, long and slow and deep. You bend one knee to shift the angle, to take him deeper and hear his low moan as you tighten around him.

He doesn't change his gentle rhythm, softly fucking you through an orgasm that seems to last all the ages of the world. When you're lying limp and gasping beneath him, still shuddering through aftershocks, he kisses you so sweetly you might burst for the love of him, and goes limp as he drops onto your chest, utterly spent. 

The angle of the sun has barely changed when Finan rouses you both from your stupor with raised brows and a conspiratorial smile. If anyone understands, it's him. Sihtric rises and helps you to your feet, and together you head back toward camp to deal with the aftermath.


End file.
